


Summer, Fall

by Sophisticated_Adult



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: Auron Does Not Stop, Backstory, Gen, I guess I'm just going to have to tell myself that I don't ship Auron and the blue cat man, Spoilers, and hope that my brain listens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 21:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11261376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophisticated_Adult/pseuds/Sophisticated_Adult
Summary: Braska is dead. Jecht is...gone. And Auron...Auron refuses.





	Summer, Fall

**Author's Note:**

> A small tribute to that time Auron crawled across half of Spira while mortally wounded because he made a God Damn Promise, Okay

The celebrations has been going on for a week now, and showed no signs of slowing down. The cry went up so often – _Braska, Auron, Jecht!_ – that even those who still did not know the names of their saviours would know soon enough.

Kimahri was as pleased as any other that Sin was defeated. A part of him was saddened at the deaths it had taken to do so – the now-High Summoner and one of his Guardians – but of course he was looking forward to the new Calm as much as anyone else in Spira.

It was hot down on the plains and in the cities, moreso with the crush and press of the celebrating crowd. Work was near impossible to find during the onset of a new Calm, so Kimahri took the time to meditate and reflect outside Bevelle’s city walls. There was talk of improving the bridge, in Lord Braska’s honour. Kimahri liked it as it was, plain and almost ramshackle – it reminded him of the ones he’d crossed on his way down the Mountain and through the Calm Lands. He could see his way to Macalania Forest, where colder winds blew.

It was on a day similar to any other during that week. Kimahri was resting in the shade of a pillar, listening to the distant cheers of the crowd and imagining how unpleasant it would be in the middle of it all, when he spotted a lone figure in the distance. By now surely all of Spira knew and had already made their way to Bevelle to take part in the festivities; whoever this was, they were late getting the news. Kimahri watched the figure with mild interest, absently thinking he might present himself to the Temple to offer his services – he was a small and weak Ronso, but humans were even smaller and weaker than he was. Surely there was some monk or priest who fancied having himself a Guardian.

The day passed. The sun beat down. The person was almost agonizingly slow. Kimahri kept his eye on them, in case any fiends attacked, but otherwise he wouldn’t interfere. People could be touchy about that sort of thing.

Now they were onto the bridge, Kimahri thought he recognized them, or at least the outfit. There were pictures on banners all over the city, in news footage, on good-luck icons sold by street merchants that had to scramble to get them made and ordered. The sole remaining survivor of the party that had vanquished Sin, Sir Auron had become a celebrity overnight, and he’d disappeared overnight, too. He must have dealt with whatever business he’d had, though it seemed to have taken a lot out of him. He stumbled a little on the bridge; Kimahri rose to his feet and nearly recoiled at the sudden, harsh smell on the wind.

This was not right.

The bridge shuddered and shook as Kimahri pounded forwards. He met the man at the halfway point and caught him just as he fell again, taking seconds to accomplish the distance the hero of Spira had needed near half an hour to complete, and this close, it was clear why. A Guado was able to sense the presence of the Farplane, but any Ronso could tell when someone’s own Death was upon them. There was no accompanying stink of blood, no wound Kimahri could see, but the man was dying all the same. In some way it would almost be easier if he was bleeding out; then Kimahri could rush him to a healer and he could be fixed. No healer could mend this.

Sir Auron pushed feebly against Kimahri’s firm arms. “Let me go.” His words were harsh gasps, every action a clear, painful struggle. “I need…to go…”

“You need rest,” Kimahri told him, for all the good it would do against one so determined. “No more going.”

A rattling laugh escaped dry lips. “Sorry. But I promised.” Kimahri eyed the canteen slung around the man’s hips, wondered if getting him to drink something would help at all. “I promised Braska I would look after her.” Hands closed around Kimahri’s fur and Sir Auron even managed to pull himself up a little, impressing Kimahri at his sheer force of will.

“Look after who?” Kimahri helped him take a few more faltering steps, since stopping him seemed fruitless.

“His daughter.” Sir Auron’s legs shook, and his grip was now painful, but they made it across the bridge together. “Yuna.”

"Kimahri go to Yuna." He could guess at what Sir Auron really wanted without the man having to claw at every breath to say it. "Kimahri protect her."

Sir Auron stilled. Then, all of a sudden, he slumped against Kimahri's broad chest. "Thank you." There was no doubt that at full strength he was a powerhouse, but he seemed so small and frail in Kimahri's arms. "You don't know what this means to me. Thank you." 

Kimahri gently held the dying man until the end came.


End file.
